“Don’t hollo till you are out of the wood. This is a night for praying rather than boasting.”
“She cannot really love that wretch,” said Hereward, after a pause. “You saw how she mocked him.”
“Women are strange things, and often tease most where they love most.”
“But such a misbegotten savage.”
“Women are strange things, say I, and with some a big fellow is a pretty fellow, be he uglier than seven Ironhooks. Still, just because women are strange things, have patience, say I.”
The lock creaked, and the old priest came in. Martin leapt to the open door; but it was slammed in his face by men outside with scornful laughter.
The priest took Hereward’s head in his hands, wept over him, blessed him for having slain Goliath like young David, and then set food and drink before the two; but he answered Martin’s questions only with sighs and shakings of the head.
“Let us eat and drink, then,” said Martin, “and after that you, my lord, sleep off your wounds while I watch the door. I have no fancy for these fellows taking us unawares at night.”
Martin lay quietly across the door till the small hours, listening to every sound, till the key creaked once more in the lock. He started at the sound, and seizing the person who entered round the neck, whispered, “One word, and you are dead.”
“Do not hurt me,” half shrieked a stifled voice; and Martin Lightfoot, to his surprise, found that he had grasped no armed man, but the slight frame of a young girl.